


Old Soldiers: the Battle of Dead Town

by Makori_Lazarus



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Dead Town, F/M, First work - Freeform, Gen, Krimzon Guard, Okay I suck at tags, Original Character(s), Pre-Jak II, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makori_Lazarus/pseuds/Makori_Lazarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PRE-JAK II: As the eco shortage crisis digs deep, tension sets in across an energy-starved Haven City.  To take the edge off, Freedom League Commander Torn heads to the Naughty Ottsel for a few drinks, but gets far more than he reckoned on when a figure from his past emerges from nowhere; a former Krimzon Guardsman he once commanded who now sits across from him, puts a pistol to his own head and declares he’ll pull the trigger on account of the former KG Captain.  Join them as they relive the day where the entire course of the Metal Head War changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Soldiers: the Battle of Dead Town

** Prologue: A Night at the Ottsel **

Haven City tonight was hot and sticky, a result of the summer that rolled over the region, sweeping the humidity from the surrounding jungles into the coastal winds off the newly expanded port. Without the old barrier walls to keep the city's environment contained, this new phenomenon resulted in the South Port district being extremely uncomfortable to stay in, a weather pattern the residents hadn't yet adjusted to. Even the breeze wafting through the military issue Hammer Head Torn was driving with the windows rolled down didn't do much to dispel the horridly thick atmosphere. Haven's new craze for ground-based vehicles as opposed to anti-grav Zoomers was a curious one, but also one the Guard took to with aplomb. Too bad it was cut short by the current crisis, with eco so scarce these days. Was it a bit selfish to take a Guard vehicle out to get a drink with the current problems? Yes, but Torn took the liberty tonight. He needed a Mar damned drink, and the Guard had a total lock on the little eco left. From League HQ to the Port was only a short drive, so he justified it in his mind that a little stress relief would help him work better.

And stress relief was needed. For so long, Haven City's worry about eco supplies had been about finding more, sucking it up as quickly as possible and figuring out how to turn it back around into the war machine. Now, however, that system lacked the supply, and demand was enormously high with the scarcity. This had caused issue after issue with Ashelin, her new city council and Torn's Freedom League forces. Finding out what took priority right now was just as vital as finding another eco source, now that both the eco fields and the drill platform were coming up with busts. Dry wells already picked over by Metal Head and elf alike, shafts previously marked as future endeavors that were now mysteriously empty, even deposits at the bottom of the ocean that had suddenly dried up without warning. What little eco was coming in was going to the Guard and future efforts to find more eco. Of course, that was causing just as many problems among the populace. As fuel and power prices soared, vehicles were left empty for weeks at a time, and rolling blackouts plagued the city. It seemed, even four years after the end of the Metal Head Wars and three after the end of the Dethbot Crisis, Haven City simply couldn't get a break.

Grunting in annoyance, Torn dismounted from his blue and yellow vehicle, pushing past the crowd outside to get inside the bar. Some people recognized him, fewer than one might assume. Torn's face may be on the propaganda posters and behind Ashelin as she made her addresses and at council hearings, but just like in real life, he stayed mostly silent, speaking only when needed. Most of those people who recognized him as he pushed in through the door were military, and they either stepped aside in respect or turned away in controlled distaste. The majority of the ex-KG vets had never looked upon him too well as a traitor, even those who hated the Baron's actions too. But Torn never let that bother him, he had known what he was getting into when he defected.

Of course, the civilians who recognized him saw none other than Governess Praxis' enforcer, and he received just as many dirty looks from them too. Such fickle people. Once, he had been a hero to this city, leading the Underground against the tyranny of the Baron and then the Freedom League in holding off the Metal Heads and KG Dethbots. Now that he was helping keep unfavorable laws, however, he was the bad guy. Commander of the newest jackboot regime. Some leaflets and graffiti found around the city had even called him the new Erol…and that was a low blow.

So, as he caught a corner table alone and ordered a strong hit of bourbon, it was little wonder Torn needed to let off some steam. Ashelin was, of course, taking the brunt of the negative attention, but Torn was the one ordering the League Guard to enforce order, put down riots, monitor energy usage to ensure compliance…some days, it felt like they'd gone right back to the Baron's way of doing things. To be blunt, Torn felt like a damn hypocrite, and it made him sick to his stomach. Because honestly, it seemed like there was no other way to keep control right now.

His drink appeared, carried by a scantily clad waitress, and Torn forked over the money without asking for change, grabbing the sour mash by the neck of the bottle, ignoring the shot glass. As the woman made a little noise of disapproval and walked off to go serve other customers, Torn felt the burn of the liquor roil down his throat, and he welcomed it, finally breaking off with a gasping cough after two or three gulps. Jak and Keira had left to figure out this crisis three weeks ago (with that little rodent, he was happy to say) and ever since then the city had gone to hell in a handbasket. If he wasn't careful, Torn might have to fight a revolution, a sick and twisted irony of the highest order.

Over the next hour, he carefully nursed the rest of the bottle of liqour, glancing out at the people crammed into the bar. The Naughty Ottsel was doing well with Tess at the reigns, proving the little blonde she-ottsel had more brains than people gave her credit for. As an elf, many had thought her a bimbo, and he had exploited that in full several times to embed her in places where people weren't so careful with their talk because of this. Now she had a business, and had officially retired from the spy business. Torn was happy for her, but sometimes he wished he had her in his corner. Although her current shape might not be so inconspicuous now, he thought wryly to himself.

A pair of military boots came to a halt next to his table, and out the corner of his eye, he spotted gold braids and black cloth. A dress uniform then. They must really want him to come back.

"I told you, I need a night off!" he snapped, turning to the interrupting party. "Dammit, I left my comm. back at HQ for a re-"

He stopped, words dying on his tongue as he finally looked up at who he was talking to. It only now occurred to him that League dress uniforms were grey, not black, and they used gold epaulets, not a length of braid, as well as a completely different style cap. His eyes immediately flashed to the ribbons and citations on the right breast, and noticed the black skull on red field that was the Voluntary Service Merit. Those were only awarded to those who had enlisted instead of waiting for the draft during the Metal Head Wars. This was a Krimzon Guardsman, a veteran if the service medals were correct. A pair of robotic hands were clasped together in front of the figure, plated with Freeodom League blue instead of KG red. So, someone who had transferred after the change in government. But the Guard had all been issued new uniforms, so…

Finally, he looked up at the soldier's face. As he had expected, there were the facial tattoos, specifically a KG tradition that was falling out of favor more and more often as time went on. On the left cheek was a large, gnarled and pockmarked scar, evident of some kind of battle wound. A jagged gash lunged across the soldier's through, disappearing under the collar. Then there was the twin prosthetic hands, which was tragic enough by itself. This trooper had certainly been mauled.

But Torn squinted, staring harder as he fought the buzz in the back of his head. There was something about this wounded man, this vet in the archaic dress, that called to him from history, bothering him and squirming around in his head. And, as he finally found those hard, steel grey eyes, it finally came to the commander.

"Basker?" he asked, dumb-founded. "Lance-Corporal Basker? Where the hell did you come from?"

"Canals, actually. Grew up right outside the Arena, spent my boyhood trying to sneak onto the racetrack." Basker chuckled at the comment, but his eyes held no mirth.

"Can it, Corporal. I last saw you ten years ago, and you suddenly turn up out of the blue? Start talking."

Basker's face, already hard, took on a steel edge.

"Its Gunnery-Sergeant, sir. Permission to sit?"

Torn wordlessly gestured to the opposite seat, directing the soldier to sit. Nothing about this situation was right at all. The old uniform, the demeanor this guy was showing, turning up out of nowhere right now when everything was as tense as it was. But maybe he was just getting paranoid. Maybe the alcohol was getting to him. Maybe there was nothing to this and it just so happened to be an odd occurrence of a former charge turning up again after so many years.

Of course, that was all dispelled when Basker sat, addressed his uniform for a moment, then reached to his belt and drew a service pistol, placing the weapon on the table.

For a minute or two, there was a shocked silence. Of course, Torn hadn't expected that, but for some reason, he wasn't surprised. What got to him more, however, was that nobody else in the Ottsel seemed to have noticed either the strangely dressed soldier or the service pistol that had just emerged. Either that or they just didn't care.

"Gunnery-Sergeant. You gonna shoot me with that weapon?" Torn asked, narrowing his eyes. His hand twitched, and he suddenly felt the weight of his own sidearm in its holster. Stupid…he was a bit unsteady with the drink in him, but he figured he could still beat Basker to the draw if he kept him distracted.

"Negative, sir. That would defeat the purpose here."

"And what purpose would that be, Gunny?" Torn was really getting disconcerted by Basker's cold, iron mannerism. The man was stiff, unmoving, his prosthetics still and unmoving.

"There's only one round in there, sir. And it's for me."

"For…you?"

Now things had moved from confusing to downright disturbing.

"Yes sir. I fully intend to put that weapon to my temple, pull the trigger and splatter my brains across this wall, all of it in front of you."

More silence. Again, Torn was curious as to why no one in this joint had noticed the pistol laying on the table in between the two. His fears for his own safety dispelled, Torn took a closer look at Basker. This didn't make sense. A sudden urge to commit suicide in front of a former superior absent for a decade? Torn had been right before, this entire situation was off.

"Got a reason?"

Torn winced. Honestly, with the whiskey in him and his efforts to not cause a panic in the bar, that had really been the only thing he had to ask, and it was too short, too-nondescript and made him sound sharp and sarcastic. He may as well have heard the weapon cocking right now. But Basker simply seemed to accept it, like everything else so far.

"Sir. I hereby accuse you of being a coward, a traitor and turning your back on your men."

"Excuse me?"

Talk about coming out of left field on that one. Suddenly, Torn's mind sharpened up, and he felt the urge to draw his weapon once more and gun this insolent soldier down, but not only would that be an extremely bad precedent in a bar full of people, but it might also just be giving him what he wanted, which appeared to be a nonsensical death.

"Why not just go down to the Underport and feed yourself to the crocadogs, Basker? At least then someone might have some use for your corpse."

"Oh no, I want you to know that it was –you- who drove me to this, Captain. Or at least, you were my Captain. Back in another life. Before you decided the men who signed up to defend this city mattered less than your own personal vendetta. Back before your uprising endangered every single person in this city."

"Are you going to actually say something that makes or just ramble on, Basker? Because I'm getting bored and to the point where I might just shoot you myself."

It was certainly not what Basker was expecting, and the trooper blinked in surprise as he struggled to find something to say. Torn noticed a few eyes glancing over at them, finally noticing the League Commander speaking with someone dressed in a Krimzon full dress uniform. Torn pressed his offensive.

"I'm hearing a lot of talk about how I've done wrong and you're going to shoot yourself in front of me. Sounds to me like you've got a lot to talk about and you want attention. So go throw your pity party on someone else, because I've got real shit to deal with, and you're not even on the radar, Lance-Corporal."

For several more seconds, silence reigned, true silence this time, as the bar had fallen silent. Only the jukebox was making noise, and Torn felt that if someone had dropped a needle in the bar at this moment, it would have sounded like a gunshot. He glanced over at Basker, and suddenly realized that the soldier's face had changed. His facial tattoos, like all KG service ink, spiraled in smooth blocks around his eyes, which suddenly registered with shock, confusion and, most importantly, depression. And there were bags, Torn realized. Judging from their depth, Basker hadn't slept properly in a long time, probably had been awake for a few days now. Something was terribly wrong, and it seemed as if his former comrade was making the connection to him.

Torn glanced at all the other shocked and curious eyes staring at them through the bar and, considering all the options, finally made a decision. He raised a hand, waving at the rest of the bar.

"Mar dammit, can't two guys have a disagreement without everyone else getting involved?"

"Asshole," someone muttered nearby, and the bar grunted in general agreement, slowly turning back to their drinks and dancing. They were, once again, covered by the crowd. Torn looked back at Basker, picking up the bottle and pouring a shot this time, pushing it over at the man. Basker took it without a word, slugging it back in one go before bringing the glass back down. His movements with the prosthetics were stiff, but he was clearly familiar with them.

"I don't remember those from last time. Where'd they come from?"

Basker chuckled wryly, another laugh with no humor behind it at all.

"Where do all scars come from? Battle, of course. In this case, a Spyder Gunner who took exception to me when the shield wall went offline during the Baron's Fall. Decided to make an example out of me and ripped my arms off in front of my squad. They shot the bastard and rushed me to the hospital."

Torn winced, glancing at the trooper's jacket. Indeed, all the way up to the shoulder he noticed the telltale bumps and valleys. The physical therapy to recover from that had to have been brutal, not to mention the psychological trauma.

"And up here?" He gestured at his own cheek, but Basker already seemed to know what he meant as a three-fingered (only three thick, blunt fingers on each hand, Torn noticed, as well as a thumb) hand was already up at his cheek, gently stroking the horrid scar.

"Two years ago, defending Freedom League HQ. A Dethbot shock bot gave me a makeover with ten-thousand volts to the face. I was actually clinically dead for two minutes before they got some green eco in me."

Torn considered the man again. A hard-bitten veteran, if he had served since the commander remembered, and up until the last war. A long time to live in the trenches…for someone so young. Basker couldn't be more than twenty-seven right now, and yet he moved and looked like a man twice his age. Stiff, tired and attempting to keep an air of right around him.

"You look like hell, Basker. What happened to you?"

Basker chuckled, sliding another drink down his throat. "You did, sir. When you deserted and started the Underground, the war changed for everyone in the Guard. Suddenly we weren't just fighting the Metal Heads and keeping people from descending into chaos, we were fighting a rebellion too. Go out on patrol in the Slums, you were probably going to get ambushed. Just got off your shift and want a drink? Careful it's not poisoned. Gotta take a piss while on guard duty; make sure your damn throat wasn't going to get slit. –That- was not the war I signed up to fight. Your boys put a lot of good men in the ground."

"I'm sorry I had to do it, but it was necessary. The Baron had to be stopped."

"And all the troopers who died for doing their duty? Serving their city? Sir, if I may, you destabilized the entire effort. No one wanted to sign up anymore. The KG was on the verge of drafting from those who were previously unqualified. The old, the young. I was there when they started writing up the projections. We were going to take whoever could hold a rifle and walk."

"Doesn't surprise me. I'm glad we were that much of a thorn in their side, that's the whole point of a resistance movement."

"Sir…Torn. You don't get it. You guys split the war in half. Those guys fighting the Metal Heads had to fight inside the city too. The number of Hellcats, Zoomers, soldiers and heavy weapons available…" Basker paused, watching Torn's face carefully. "There were some good guys in the Guard, y'know. Good men and women. Doing their job. We weren't all punch-clock bastards, some of us actually –wanted- to serve the city, keep the Metal Heads at bay."

Torn leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "There weren't enough of you. Yeah, I made sacrifices. There was some collateral, but that's what happens when you put on a uniform. You take on the grudges and sins of the guy whose symbol you wear. Well I didn't want to wear those sins anymore. So I left." Torn paused, shaking his head. "You can't pin none of that on me."

"Sure as hell can," Basker retorted. His left hand clenched the table so tightly, the wood creaked, threatening to splinter under his metal grip. "If you hadn't put together the Underground, we wouldn't have had to worry about walking home at Mar damned night. Could have fought the Metal Heads on even terms instead of slowly getting pushed back inside the city itself, cut off from everything else. I…we wouldn't have been shooting kids in the street who had no business fighting a revolution. You think you made sacrifices, sir? Ask the guys who were ordered to kill kids with guns."

Basker was quiet for a minute or two, grabbing another drink and down it. When he finally got himself squared away, he said, quietly "I still have nightmares. About both wars, of course. Seen a lot of bad shit. But nothing as bad as…as Dead Town."

Torn immediately felt himself sober up. Of course. Of course that was the cause of all this. Seven years before Torn met Jak, Dead Town had fallen in the course of a day when the Metal Heads had broken through. He'd been there, in command of a contingent of Guardsmen tasked with holding the Miracle Mile. Basker had been there too, fought under Torn's command. In fact, the two of them had gone through hell that day. But in the end, the story was always the same. The Baron sacrificed innocent lives because, in the Baron's own words, "It would take as many troops to defend it as lives we can actually save. Leave it, Captain. Let it sink." That day had caused Torn to wake up to the corruption and brutality he had ignored for so long, and he had defected a week later. But men like Basker…on that point, the former Guardsman was right. They were just doing their jobs, following orders and trying to save a city under siege. Truth be told, that day still haunted Torn too.

"Have you…talked about it to anyone?"

"What, you mean like a shrink? So they can slap me around for my head as well as my arms and give the records more reason why I can't take care of myself?" Basker sighed, shaking his head. "They don't understand."

"And blowing your brains out in public right here in front of me is going to make people get it?"

"I didn't want it to be…for nothing. You hear about guys all the time, eating their guns and they aren't found for days. Rotting, alone in their place. Only found because someone called about the smell."

"So you're still serious about suicide? I was starting to hope it was some kind of in the moment thing." He watched Basker, noticed the stone silence and the mile-long stare. He'd seen that kind of stare before, in other traumatized veterans. He'd known many of them who had also offed themselves, and the symptoms were sometimes impossible to spot. He couldn't do anything for those men and women. But he could save this one. "Let's go over it. You and me."

Basker blinked hard in surprise. "What, the battle? Here? Us?"

"You see anyone else here that survived it? Ex-KG are disappearing from the ranks. Ten years is a long time, Basker. Most of the men from Dead Town are dead, or run off to become mercenaries or bandits. I've kept track as well as I can, and its astonishing how few are left from the old Guard." Torn poured another two fingers of whiskey, slugged it down before pouring one for Basker. "So…why don't we go over it again? It's not doing either of us any good replaying it in our heads. And I sure as hell haven't talked to anyone about what I saw either. No…not even the Governess. In case you were wondering."

The look on Basker's face said he had been…but didn't want to say.

"Okay, sir. If you think it'll help. I'll share the story as we both know it."

And with that, the two old soldiers took a walk back into the past that few remembered, and even fewer spoke of in detail anymore. The battle that had created the carcass district known as Dead Town.

**Author's Note:**

> Parting Shots: okay, welcome everyone to my first work here on AO3. I've been a longtime reader, but only just worked up the nerve to apply to this site myself. This story has been one I've worked on for a bit on FF.net, but due to the lack of attention it seems to have there, I decided to try here and see if I could get a bit more reading.
> 
> So, a few requests please; if you leave a review, please have it be constructive as possible, as flames will simply be used to keep me warm this Christmas. My motivation to write is greatly enhanced by feedback, so even if its only one line, a single sentence will keep me going! Other than that, enjoy the reading and happy holidays! Hopefully, I'll be back before too long!


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